2014-01-13

It’s when we’re most engaged with other thingsthat the angel enters, a twist in temperature,a lightness in the chest that we call wings.Giddy with sacrament and the impuregluttony of blood and air and skin,we look with panoramic eyes to wherethe earth curls under and the sky begins,though we ourselves are of this light-shot air,senses extending without obstacle,reaching past by rooting down through rock—obdurate kindness, heaven’s windowsill.We are as useless as an open lock,more insubstantial than a drinking song,and marked by sandstone long after we’re gone.